


Honey Those Blue Eyes (How Could Anyone Deny You)

by boywiththerose (orphan_account)



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction
Genre: Angst, Gen, larry stylinson - Freeform, larry stylinson smut, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/boywiththerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why Harry's favourite camboy only shows what's below his pink lips on camera. He gets curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Those Blue Eyes (How Could Anyone Deny You)

“Look–I'm not saying I watch him, but mate I'm telling you it's quality content,” There's small pieces of banana flying out of Harry's peach lips as he speaks, but he doesn't seem to care well because, he really doesn't. He was just trying to simply defend himself as a human being with occasional (once a day) sexual frustrations. Since the dawn of the Internet something as filthy as porn wasn't taboo, was it? Perhaps not taboo but certainly something you didn't shout from rooftops. And certainly not what Harry was into. I mean, for gods sake it wasn't porn it was more of a jolis garçons à la caméra sort of fantasy that he enjoyed fulfilling at least once a day. 

“All I'm saying is you have a problem–you haven't even got a clue what the lad looks like and you're shooting your load for 'im every millisecond when mind you should be time spent studying for your Psychology final that's need I remind you three weeks away.”

Harry rolls his eyes because that's all he can do when Liam talks, really. To hell with Uni–Harry would've been just as fine working at a convenience shop mopping up spit and rearranging misplaced items here and there. 

Their flat smelled of takeout and sweaty socks, but it wasn't Harry's fault. Liam was the one who insisted to always do laundry every Friday at once–and yes Harry realised it would've been smarter to live on campus instead of making the 3 times a week horrendous drives to MMU with Liam always singing the same damned London Grammar song, but Harry well–Harry fucking hates Uni. If it wasn't for his mother's only true wish for him to major in psychology, he'd be out of school ass first with the bird up at everyone who'd ever even taken a breath next to him, but he had to stay. It was his mum's way or he could kiss rent free living in Manchester goodbye. For an 18 year old, living rent free was fucking lavish living, and Harry agreed. 

So, he put his big boy pants on and dealt with the projects and assignments and his roommate that could cause a nun to curse in annoyance, which had happened once. (Liam liked to argue it was a wild dream Harry had one night, but Harry knew quite well why Liam got so fidgety around churches–and nuns).

He had met Liam in his intro to Psychology beginning course in year one, and Harry had strategically befriended him as soon as he had made the conclusion that Liam wasn't an annoying twat. He had then asked him if he wanted to room with him in the nicest flat building in Manchester and Liam couldn't say no to that. Liam was alright. Liam wasn't an asshole. Well, he wasn't one then. Now, mornings when Liam wouldn't shut his trap were the ones where Harry was one more word out of Liam's mouth away from sticking hot sticks in his ears. Of course, Liam always made the stinging argument that Harry couldn't ever listen to one thing he had to say but his ears were always perked for a certain faceless boy that had Harry smitten. 

That always shut Harry up because it sure as hell wasn't a lie. 

One restless night when Harry's briefs had felt like clingfilm on his cock, tugging at himself just wasn't doing it, he had done something he'd never really looked into before. His thoughts seemed to be suffocated by his sweaty hair matted to his forehead, and so that night he had opened a link he'd never even dare to even type out. (He had a weird fear of some third party Big Brother being able to see him if he got off to anything on the internet, but that was impossible wasn't it?)

His erection had become so painful he drew blood as he bit his bottom lip, and that was when he'd whispered fuck it and clicked on the first floating video he had seen. It had no name, no caption, no nothing, just a photo of a pretty body from the lips down, and Harry nearly almost missed the floating link as he watched the pretty lips because shit those lips looked sinful. The video only had 456 views–and he was sure camboys were supposed to stream live but then again he shouldn't be complaining–which seemed pathetic for any porn, really;it seemed illogical for such a pretty camboy to have so few eyes on him, but Harry didn't care. Who the hell was he to judge the view count on any sort of erotic website when people like him were the reason there were websites like this to begin with. 

Harry's black boxers were at his mid thighs, and it seemed to take the video a damn lightyear to load, even though it was only five minutes long. The air in his bedroom seemed to become hot, collecting itself together behind Harry's neck and his ears, and he'd have been off just as bad in the desert. 

It seemed like his walls were watching him and yes it was a stupid thought but he couldn't help it–getting off wasn't exactly anything pure to do and he never quite felt at ease when doing anything that involved his dick. 

The image on the laptop was crystal clear and the sight was enough to force Harry's hand on his aching cock again. The boy with the pink lips was sat in front of the camera, bottom lip between his teeth as he palmed at the erection in his white briefs and Harry felt filthy but he couldn't bring himself to care–not now. There was a bed behind him, his shoulders lining with the top of the mattress and Harry then realized the boy was kneeling.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, deep voice low and slow as he stroked himself in rhythm with the pretty boy, and Harry felt jealous. He felt jealous that he was now the 457th person to see this–he wanted this video all to himself. He wanted the boy to only get off for him. 

The boy palmed himself so slowly that Harry's right bicep ached, struggling to take it as slow as he was. He usually got off fast and clean, but pink lips had him in a fidgety and sweaty mess, his heels rubbing at his thighs and hips bucking up because Harry was trying so fucking hard to stay calm, but his body just wanted to explode. 

A grainy, high moan came from the computer screen, and Harry's hips bucked up like there was no tomorrow, feverishly swinging his left arm to his right to turn the volume up all the way, closing his eyes as the small steady moans filled the room, because he knew if he looked at the boy he'd be done right then and there. He prayed to no one that Liam wasn't home and out clubbing instead, because the moans seemed like surround sound and his walls were inappropriately thin.

His right arm ached as he leaned against it, trying to get a good view of his screen without letting go of his cock, and although the boy was a moaning mess, he still didn't show his face, and Harry wanted nothing more than to see it. Even as he sunk onto a light blue dildo, Harry tried so hard to find any form of a mistake, where the boys nose or hair or eyes were making an accidental appearance onscreen, but it didn't happen. 

“Fuck me,” the boy shakily moaned, and his voice was so pretty that Harry had to hold his breath to not cum on his keyboard right there, but the boy riding the dildo so filthily seemed to make Harry's right hand tug at his cock harder and harder, like the boy's pretty ass controlled his hand, his balls tightening with each tug, and when the boy with the pretty lips came fast and loud onto his chin and mouth, Harry's whole body twitched in pleasure as he took a hold of his laptop for some sort of leverage or balance of pressure between his weak legs and strong release, and he shot out with a deep cracked moan–he had never finished like that in his life, and he knew what had done it were those pretty pink lips. His orgasm died down and he felt filthy as a wave of heat hit him with the aftershocks, his ears feeling like they'd been placed on a hot iron. 

His breaths were heavy as he grabbed his laptop again, wiping his forehead with his bed sheets as his vision cleared itself of the pleasure that seemed to blind him for a good three minutes, and Harry then did something stupid. 

He couldn't seem to find a logical explanation to why he'd done what he did that night, but the curiosity had gotten to him far too deeply, and since no one really knew who he was, what was the harm in it? There couldn't be any. For god's sake he had just had an earth shattering orgasm caused by a man he didn't even know, and it seemed like the chivalrous thing to do–well at least as classy as it'd get at that point. 

He opened the public comment section of the video and a small grey bubble was shining brightly that read 'be the first to comment in this video!'. And so Harry did. Although it seemed so idiotic because shit isn't it creepy enough to watch someone get off online, and then isn't it just the cherry on top of the cake to leave some freakish comment? Possibly. Harry pushed that thought away and just prayed no one thought he was some sex offender. He just needed to. He quickly made an account and registered himself for the camboy website, his username h_styles, and his sweaty fingers then proceeded to type out what might've been the few sentences that completely fucked Harry. 

h_styles: Couldn't help but notice you didn't show your face, just your lips–everything alright? Or is that some sort of weird fetish I don't know about? Anyway, you're very pretty, at least from what I saw. I'm not a creep, I swear. 

He chose the option to show his comment only to the owner of the video, and he clicked post.

Harry really was an idiot. A new popup took over his laptop screen, and it was a free trial to have a one on one skype call with a camboy of his choice and, well, Harry signed in with his account and lazily typed in his username connected with the video he'd just watched–he wanted to see the boy for himself. 

____ 

2 weeks. It had been two weeks after Harry had watched and gotten off to a video he didn't bother to ever open up again, but he had opened the website a few times to notice no one had commented below him yet, and that gave him a sense of relief, but saddened him all at once. That meant the pretty boy in the video hadn't seen Harry's comment yet, or just hadn't bothered to skype him or answer back. Harry had thought for a while the boy would've appreciated the comment he'd left, but he had to constantly remind himself that he didn't know the camboy–he didn't know what he liked, or if he thought Harry sounded sweet or completely insane. 

The video had gained 200 views in those two weeks, and Harry really wished he didn't feel angry but that would be a lie. He was angry. Maybe this was why Harry really shouldn't have ever watched camboys– especially that one. He felt a certain type of protection over the boy, like he was his and he was supposed to stop others from laying his eyes on him, but it was absolutely ridiculous. 

He had checked his email and skype crazily, but no new messages ever came–he just wanted a reply. 

He almost fell over when in his inbox he didn't get another article from The Debrief or coupons from Topshop, but an email from loutom91@camboys4u.uk . He thought he'd imagined it and carefully clicked on it, holding his breath as he saw his comment attached to the email, along with a private reply that only Harry could see. 

loutom91@camboys4u.uk : No one's ever called me pretty, thank you. I saw you signed up for the skype trial and put me in there–When should we do that? 

Harry frowned. 

He didn't want to force the boy to do anything, he just wanted to talk to the boy. Of course to anyone on a website like that it wouldn't seem logical for someone to want to skype for the hell of it, but Harry didn't mean any harm by it at all–Harry had a hard time remembering that no one but his own self knew what he was thinking. A stupid thing to forget, but he still did. 

The email had come in at 20:13. It was 20:15. Harry typed out a separate email so his reply wouldn't be posted on the camboy website, and he prayed the boy was still in his emails. 

h_styles@hotmail.uk : You're very pretty :) My name's Harry. You didn't answer my question, by the way. If I'm honest I just signed up for the trial to talk to you.

5 minutes.

10 minutes.

30 minutes had passed, and no reply. Harry bit his lip, his stomach feeling heavy. Had he said something insulting? Had he crossed a boundary by letting him know his name? Had he made a mistake communicating with the boy altogether? 

His laptop chimed at 21:00, and Harry lept onto it like his life depended on it. If it was another email from ASOS advertising their vintage sale again he swore he'd tear the MacBook right in half. 

But it wasn't. 

 

loutom91@camboys4u.uk : I'm Louis. I can answer that question over skype. Can I call you now?

Harry frowned, and he was all around confused. Why couldn't he just answer the question? And he was actually willing to skype Harry–he wasn't expecting that at all, but he wasn't complaining. 

Harry began to panic, and looked himself over–he wore a plain white t-shirt, long curls all over his face and it seemed pathetic that he felt underdressed in this situation, so instead he calmed himself down, taking deep breaths and calmly replying back to Louis. 

h_styles@hotmail.uk : Sure. Call me whenever :) 

____

Even though Harry had answered the call 10 minutes prior to this situation, the screen was black, like a cloth was covering the camera. He'd said nothing, though, instead sitting back in his bed, watching the unchanged screen. The brightness of the laptop was burning his eyes painfully, using all of his will to stay awake was beginning to get harder than he thought. 

Shuffling on Louis' end made Harry jolt, his green eyes wide as he stared at the screen, a picture slowly appearing. 

He saw him. 

Louis' face was at the left side of the camera, and Harry's heart dropped as he understood why Louis didn't show his face–he couldn't. 

Dark purple bruises covered his face, eyebrow torn open and no sign of old bruises, just fresh new ones, blood vessels broken under pale skin. The most beautiful sight among the more saddening one was his eye, though. The blue pierced through the darkness of the room he was in, and Harry swore his room was illuminated a light blue because of the eye of Louis' that he could see. It looked tired and red but my god was it blue. Pretty. Harry was right and Louis was pretty. 

“Louis? What happened? Are you okay?” Harry tried leaning into the camera, trying to somehow see Louis better, but it was impossible–Louis kept himself tucked at the edge of the camera, and he looked like he was in the same exact position as in the video–had he been there all those weeks? Why didn't he move? Why the hell was Harry questioning him like they were best of friends and what the hell had he gotten himself into? 

“I can't talk for long–I'm not even supposed to be doing this. I'm not supposed to skype anyone but I had to try and I just hoped someone would pick me in the ad and when you did I was scared you were one of his friends trying to see what I'd-”

“Louis, what the hell is happening? Why are you so bruised? I–Shit, I don't even know you but I'm so confused, what's going on?” 

A door clicked in the distance, and Louis blue eye widened, his head dropping, and the sound of shaking on some sort of paper was heard. 

A piece of paper took over the surface of the camera, and on it was a poorly written name–Louis' full name–and some sort of address. 

“Take a picture, Harry! Please hurry and take a picture, you need to help me,” Louis cried, pulling his leg up, and holy shit, Harry heard the harsh pull of chains and his heart was in his throat and he didn't know he was crying until his vision blurred as he shakily took at least 10 pictures of the computer screen with his phone. 

Louis was chained to the bed and he needed help. 

“I'm going to die you need to help me you need to send someone to this address and you need to get me someone needs to help Harry I beg you I'm-” 

The call disconnected and Harry felt nauseous. He felt as if every meal he'd ever had in his life was in his throat–the whole universe was laying on his abdomen and he felt as if he was about to vomit the whole damn world. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened and as he numbly went through his recent photos to make sure he wasn't insane, the last photo was Louis crying and holding the blurry piece of paper to the camera. He felt sick. He felt sick because he was the only one who Louis had–the only hope and as Harry spilled his guts into his toilet with his phone in a death grip in his hand, he knew he was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Should this end here, or should I add another chapter?


End file.
